Sacrifice
by Wyntir Rose
Summary: Jazz questions Smokescreen's motives when the tactician volunteers to be enmeshed on a data crystal before the Ark leaves Cybertron.


**Sacrifice**

_Disclaimer: Transformers belong to Hasbro and Takara, and are licensed to IDW and Dreamworks. My original characters are my own and any similarity between them and any existing characters from canon or fandom is purely coincidental. I claim no ownership by writing this work._

Author's Notes: This takes place in the same universe as Ace in the Hole and is intended as a sort of sequel to BitterWyntir's Divided Loyalties. There is no connection between this and my Vignettes-verse fics. Special thanks to BitterEloquence for betaing this.

* * *

"I've made up my mind and there's nothing else to discuss. Now if you don't mind, I need to get this finished."

Smokescreen never turned around to look at Jazz, he just kept carefully packing his things into a deep-storage crate. He worked methodically and without any obvious emotion, but Jazz was as much an expert at body language as Smokescreen was, and he saw the way the tactician's doors shivered almost imperceptibly as he worked. Anyone else would have assumed the movement was a result of Smokescreen walking around the room, but the saboteur knew better.

"I think there is more t' talk about and I'm not leavin' 'til you give me one good reason for why you're doin' this," Jazz replied calmly.

"You don't know what's going to happen on this mission, you don't know if you'll need more troops, and you don't know what skill sets you'll need. But you don't have the resources to bring along a mech who'll likely be ballast if all goes well. There. That's four if you're liberal about the definition. Now would you mind?" Smokescreen looked pointedly at the door.

Jazz just stayed where he was leaning against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. "That's smelter slag an' you know it. This has nothin' t' do with your skill set or th' energon shortage. Now you can keep on avoidin' me or we can talk about why you're really doin' this."

Smokescreen placed a pile of data pads in the cube with a sigh before turning to face the Special Ops Captain. "All right fine. ... I'll take the first option." With that Smokescreen pulled a trio of picture cubes off the shelf and wrapped each carefully in packing film.

"This is a mistake and you know it, Smokey," Jazz stated in that infuriatingly calm voice of his. "And doin' this ain't gonna to change a thing. He'll still be gone."

Smokescreen's hands clenched around one of the picture cubes and the for the briefest moment his doors drooped. But only fractionally and the emotional display was over almost before it started.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Jazz. This is for the good of the Autobot cause."

"Yeah, save it for the rubes, 'cause I ain't buyin'." Jazz left his position at the desk and took Smokescreen by the shoulders, turning him carefully. "You've never been this altruistic before and I hate to say it, but it don't suit ya."

Smokescreen struggled feebly against Jazz, never truly attempting to stop the black and white mech from turning him. He sighed and looked the saboteur in the optics after a long period of silence.

"You're leaving and this is the only way I can come along. I know this won't change anything, but I also know that I can't stay here any more. I need a change and it's either this or I resign my commission. ... And I'm honestly not sure what I'll do if I leave the Autobots. So please stop trying to talk me out of this?"

That last plea was broken and tired, and Jazz let out a small miserable sigh in return. "All right. Fine. I get it. You've been depressed since ... for a while now, an' I get it. But I need t' know that you aren't doin' this t' punish yourself. You did the only thing you could've and where Swindle ended up wasn't your fault."

Smokescreen nodded and pulled away. "I know. He chose his berth. ... This isn't about him or the mind prison, or any of that. This is just about me needing to make a clean break from my past and I can't do that here."

Jazz nodded in understanding and started to help Smokescreen pack his belongings for the trip. When he was reactivated he was going to need his belongings. Whenever that was going to be. So together the two mechs carefully packed everything into the crate until only a touch-up kit remained.

"What about your paint and wax?" Jazz asked, picking up the small box.

"Seeing as I don't know what I'll be when I wake up or even what colors I'll have, there's not really much point," the tactician said with a smile that did little to hide the depression that lurked behind his optics. "Besides, that stuff doesn't have the greatest shelf life."

"Right," Jazz nodded, putting the kit back on the shelf. "So I guess that's it then."

"Guess it is." Uncomfortable silence descended between the two mechs until finally Smokescreen pulled Jazz into a hug.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you for understanding and letting me do this."

Jazz returned the hug in silence.

* * *

Jazz stood at the back of the room and watched as the eerie procedure took place. One by one mechs were sat in the machine and one by one they were killed. He knew that the procedure was not quite so cut and dry. He knew that their programs and sparks were safely stored in those strange crystal boxes. But it didn't change the fact that their bodies ceased to function and that there was no knowing when these volunteers would be made functional again. If ever.

The process wasn't too hard to rationalize with the others. After all, Jazz didn't know them. They were just names. But when Smokescreen stepped up to take his turn, when he sat in that chair and prepared to be enmeshed, all Jazz could think was that his friend was killing himself.

Smokescreen looked up with a small smile and a nod. "See you on the other side, Jazz. I'm all set, Doc."

"Activating enmeshing process," Ratchet murmured as he entered a sequence of keystrokes into the system.

Smokescreen's optics flared briefly as his body stiffened, then he became slack, head lolling to the side, optics dark and empty.

"Transfer complete," Ratchet said as he checked the readout. "Okay, let's get his spark chamber safely stored and the body down to recycling. The folks who're staying behind will need the parts."

The medical staff carefully removed Smokescreen's still form from the device and brought him to surgery where the process would be completed. And where his friend's body would be processed for easy dispersal. Jazz couldn't watch any more. He turned and slipped out of the room on silent feet.

Several cycles later he found himself in the medical storage bay of the Ark, the ship that would take them from Cybertron and off to find a new energon source. In the dim light, the data crystals glowed, eerie and pink on their shelf. One in particular caught his attention.

"I hope this'll be worth it Smokey. I hope you come back to us in a better state, 'cause Primus-slaggit, I'm going to miss you mech. This just had better've been worth it."

Jazz ran his finger over the name carved on the front of the box, and for a moment he thought he saw Smokescreen's spark flare to life briefly.


End file.
